Maybe the difficult thing that happens to me
is the price of living.
What happened yesterday is not enough.
The waters are not enough to wash the wound.
I am a fish, and I must flee from the fishing line
where my fellow men give up.
How to name this pain?
What poison contaminates me?
Could it be that incubation takes years?
Who changed the strings of the guitar
so that melody has no direction?
I need to be scaled one last time,
to flee against the current bitterness
and I feel like entering the net.
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When I close my door
PoetryI dedicate this work to all the friends who are left in the heart. To all those who love me. In When I close my door, a social interest and a renunciation for the sake of communication is explicit, the subject destroys his exterior, recomposes himse...
